


Mercy Unto Thousands

by middlemarch



Series: Shadow Season 2 [6]
Category: Mercy Street (TV)
Genre: American Civil War, Angst, F/M, Family, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-27
Updated: 2017-03-27
Packaged: 2018-10-11 21:22:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10474704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch
Summary: What does it mean to be saved?





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Annebronterocks](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Annebronterocks).



Matron looked younger in her mourning clothes. It was a thought he could share with no one, now that Lisette had gone and he found he missed her just a little for it. Once, they had been friends as well as lovers and an astute observation, elegantly put, had always won a smile from her, the appreciation of a peer. Lisette had been used to looking at people, how the skin was laid over the maxilla, the way a man’s throat corded with screams, how the expression in the eye might be reflected in the angle of the wrist, the articulated curves of the fingers that cupped a chin or were pressed against a belly flattened by stays. Mary would have listened to his comment and leapt to some action she thought might help, even if was just an attempt to understand the woman’s particular misery, but Lisette would have nodded and noted how the black cap made Matron’s faded hair look like the last snowfall, a coif that revealed the way her eyes were set in their sockets like cabochons. And Bridget herself would have laughed if he had said a word, her old dark chuckle now wild at the edges, somehow like the first rush of the needle the first time he’d known it wouldn’t work. He had said nothing when she called him over other than a polite greeting, trying not to seem as he were a cross little boy jealous he hadn’t been mentioned in the letter Mary had sent.

“Matron, what may I do for you?”

“Prettily said, Dr. Foster, but you’re not fooling me. I saw your face before, come now, there’s no point denying it, but now you need to see something. Something there is you must understand and get the right of it, this time. We’re not all granted a second chance,” she said. She might have been bitter but she wasn’t, though he caught the sense of a sadness so deep and pervasive there was no comparison but to the hovering, boundless soul. She stretched out her hand, offering the letter Mary had sent, that Bridget had read to them all, the letter from which he was conspicuously absent. He wished he had not interrupted her to ask whether he was mentioned and had waited patiently to discover that Mary had not singled him out as she had Miss Green and Miss Hastings, Dr. Hale. He had comforted himself that she had not written of Samuel Diggs, whom he knew she esteemed highly, nor even of Charlotte Jenkins, whose endeavors had been dear to Mary even as they clarified his deficits, making her question him and herself, their attachment and its worth.

“I don’t think,” he began, unsure of what he would say. That the letter was not intended for him, that he couldn’t bear to hold it and know she had ignored him as she might think he had done to her? That he could not imagine Mary writing it, in her bed, at a desk with a shawl around her shoulders, her feet bare, dictating the words between racking coughs to whichever relative replaced Mrs. Garland? He couldn’t imagine her without longing, memories of her overlaid with the drawing Lisette had left him.

“Ye don’t think, that’s true enough, for all your spoutin’ off. For her sake, ye might try,” Matron retorted, but without all the edge the words might have held, a queer encouragement infusing her tone.

“Thank you, Matron. For your…concern,” he said, taking the letter. It was paper and it did not burn him as he might have thought.

“I’ll see you’re not disturbed. The Major, I’ll make sure he’s properly occupied,” she offered, making a gesture with her hand towards the officers’ lounge. Her hand was reddened, the skin rough from her labor, and yet beautifully formed, without any distortion of the joints. He nodded and walked into the room alone, settled himself in a worn armchair and began to read.

> “Dear ~~Je~~ Mansion House Staff, 
> 
> I hope this letter finds you well and I apologize for the delay in sending it. Though not yet better, I ~~pray~~ expect to be soon. ~~Won’t you come to m~~ At which time, I shall come back to see my our my work is done. The hospital and its staff are never far from my thoughts. I trust ~~Emma~~ Miss Green has improved her bandaging technique, that Dr. Hale has not too much increased the tally of limbs lost, and that ~~Nurse~~ Miss Hastings manages thing well, as she ~~loudly~~ is apt to do in a sure-handed, Crimean way. ~~Jeded~~ Dr. Foster will surely be leading you forward with his innovative mind; may he be as patient as the patients he treats. May he, ~~please Jedediah I nee~~
> 
> Please know my thoughts and prayers are with you and put all your trust in the Union officer tasked to lead you to glory and in the precious Lord Almighty. He will never forsake you. Know that my humble pride in our shared struggle ~~is enough~~ helps sustain me. In the meantime, dear colleagues, I remain with you in spirit, if not in flesh. I am ever hopeful that I shall soon return to Alexandria alongside you, and resume the great work for the Union boys and men we have begun together. 
> 
> Sincerely and with the greatest esteem for all,  
>  Baroness Mary von Olnhausen” 

It was a revelation. Simply to see the letter, he understood that Mary had not been able to finish it. The writing changed noticeably in the second paragraph, the hand more confident but unfamiliar; she had begun the letter but had not been able to hold the pen beyond the first few lines. The words trembled on the page, uneven and shaking, loops barely closed, blots scattered and smeared. Still, he knew it was Mary who had begun the letter, her penmanship easily recognized from the memoranda she had sent him, the notes in the margin of the book she’d left him. He heard her voice, idealistic and encouraging, gently mocking those who would smile in response, and more recently, the desperate, fearful tone when she wanted him and did not think he would answer, when she would let out her breath in relief if he took her hand, hushed her, called her _sweet Molly_. The second paragraph was a stranger’s work, overly pious and pedantic in a way Mary had never been, formal throughout without any leavening. Someone had wanted to finish the letter, someone had been told to, and had done it and he should have guessed from the words alone without seeing the page itself.

He had asked Matron, “No teasing for me?” and had been answered smartly “you escaped unscathed” but the older woman had only meant for the moment, for looking at the letter, the words Mary had struggled to get down and then struck through, his name written again and again, pleading with him to come to her as he’d promised, was the sharpest blow, the deepest. Had she been as healthy as she asserted, she never would have sent the letter in its current state and whoever had helped her was occupied enough with the immediacy of Mary’s illness to forgo any decorous transcription. He had stood on the great staircase feeling sorry for himself that she did not even think to mention him when he was the one she’d wanted, to read the letter, to understand what she needed, her fear and her longing. He felt the shame of it with the guilt and knew he could not allow either to make the needle seem reasonable. He must decide what to do—to write a telegram or a letter and to whom. He considered who he might confide in and what he might be told, what more there was beyond what Mary had herself let him understand.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the shadow episode of the final episode of Mercy Street, House of Bondage; that title is taken from Exodus and so is my title.


End file.
